


Meanwhile in the heavenly skies above....

by Columbarius13



Series: We Few... We Happy Few.... [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Britain AU, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, background Sid/Geno, character back from dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:36:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Columbarius13/pseuds/Columbarius13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While his friends and comrades wait for his return, what did happen to Tanger in the battle that day?</p><p>This tells that tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... I just couldn't leave Tanger's fate unknown. 
> 
> S/G is very limited - you will have to read a lot of solo Tanger to get there. And it gets intense and angsty and there is PTSD involved, so heed the tags. That's more chapter 4 than anywhere else...

There’s the moment when Kris recognises this is not going to end well. He’s too busy trying to make sure it ends as best as it can, fighting to keep enough control of the plane breaking up around him so he can get out of it, the German plane roaring past him, to do more than feel a small pang of fear and sadness. He fights his instinct to duck at the sound of yet more bullets impacting his dying plane - too late for that, he needs the Hurricane as flat and level and controlled as he can and with the avionics a mess and the engine spluttering and flaming out, he daren’t do anything to upset the tenuous balance he’s miraculously managed to achieve by doing anything as stupid as trying to get out of the gunsights of the 109 currently behind him. 

Reaching up a hand he shoves open the cockpit hatch fully, unfastens his seatbelt and fights his way onto the seat, preparing to bail. 

His last recognition is that if the 109 is still harrying his dying aircraft, then it isn’t going after Sid or the sprog. 

And on that thought, he launches himself, Icarus like, out into the cold embrace of the empty, open, wide, blue skies.


	2. Chapter 2

The apparent upward wrench of the parachute opening is physically surprising but seems to just be a carry on from the frenetic activity of the dog fight and the battle to save the plane. 

The sudden silence - or absence of noise anyway, coupled with the change from adrenaline fuelled activity to peacefully hanging in mid air is as shocking as a plunge into a cold pool. Instinctively, Kris finds himself searching around for the next threat, heart still racing. 

But slowly, his heart stops racing, breathing quietening although still harsh in his ears, as the serenity slowly calms him down, letting him regroup and take stock of where he is. Far below him the land rolls out, fresh green and jewel-like, a mix of forest and farmland. He’s going to be landing there soon and he hopes for a better landing than the woodland would offer. He’s trying to remember what they told him about parachute landings in flight school, but it wasn’t much - more the implication that anyone who needed to use one was a coward. Kris had mocked that implication then, and more than ever he shakes his head at the stuffed shirt attitudes of some of the British he has encountered - to consider it cowardice to not ride a plane down to his death is something he will not understand. He loves life too much. 

He’s slowly settling lower and lower, the ground appearing to get closer and closer. He finds his stomach tightening in anticipation - he doesn’t see how this isn’t going to hurt. But it’s starting to look like he’s going to avoid the jagged arm invitation of the trees, as he drifts down towards a field. Some buildings off in the distance - the north his mind records automatically - assure him he will be able to find assistance if he makes the landing well. If… 

The ground is very close now and he finds himself stretching out towards it, yearning to get it over with. The physical impact is jarring, he tries to absorb it, but is tipped to the ground, left leg flaring in pain, a sudden flood of confusing images as he is enveloped in the parachute and its ropes, tumbling along the ground, trying to fight his way to the release, to free himself from the encumbrance. Finally his hand connects and he feels the pull and drag lessen and stop, as the parachute detaches, leaving him lying on the ground. He is happy to lie still for a moment, just catching his breath. 

He’s landed, he’s down, he’s survived. 

Merde, his leg hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have a plot outline now! Still not fully written so I'm not going to schedule when I post, but I know the shape of the plot now and how I intend it to progress. 
> 
> Isn't it nice to get some resolution on the tag in the first part? I just couldn't leave him presumed dead....


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris lands safely, but it seems like the universe is just enjoying messing with him now.

Eventually he realises he has to sit up, take stock of his surroundings. His leg hurts, but he doesn’t think it’s broken and it does bear his weight, after a fashion. He remembers there were buildings over to the north, so starts to move in that direction, hoping to get the assistance he needs. 

From the air, they looked closer, but once on the ground he realises they were further away than he thought, particularly since he’s limping his way across the land. It takes much longer than he would have believed to reach them. 

The farm buildings look quite ramshackle and not in the best of repair. There’s also no-one obviously around. Knocking - indeed banging - on the farm door doesn’t get an answer

“Hello?” Eventually he stands in the farmyard calling out to see if there is anyone around. “Is there anyone there?”

There’s a growl from behind him and he swings around quickly, it becoming a stumble as his leg catches, pain flaring up it again. 

The sudden pain causes him to exclaim. “Merde!”

There’s an old wizened… well Kris presumes it is a man, but it really wouldn’t surprise him to hear it’s a gnome or some such mythical creature. He’s small and grey and wrinkled, dressed in clothes that aren’t exactly rags, but don’t exactly speak of care and concern either. Of more concern (at least to Kris) is the equally ancient gun he’s holding in his hands and pointing at Kris. He holds his hands up placatingly. 

“Can you help me? I’ve been shot down. I don’t know where I am and I need to inform my station what has happened,” Kris tries to keep his voice calm, daunted by the hostility and anger in the old man’s face. 

The man growls again. “Keep your hands where I can see them Hun. Don’t you try your tricks on me, I know you’re here to spy!” and he waves the weapon in Kris’ direction, to emphasise his words. 

Hun? Kris’ English has improved a lot being here, but it’s not a term he recognises. But there’s clearly something at odds here. 

“I don’t think you’ve understood me; I’m in the RAF, my plane was shot down. I need help getting back to my station.” 

“I’m sure you want to get to the station, Fritz. Want to get information to help you invade us!”

Kris laughs, in relief. The old man thinks he’s a German. “No, no I’m not German. I’m French, flying in the RAF. I was shot down…” He finds himself slowing down and stuttering to a halt as the man doesn’t change posture, doesn’t look as though he’s understanding or accepting what Kris is saying. 

“I’m meant to believe that am I? With that accent, and looking like a Johnny Foreigner? If I hadn’t caught you, you’d have murdered us in our beds!”

Kris sighs. “I am foreign, but I’m French, not German. Listen!” and he drops into French, telling him he’s a narrow minded idiot without any knowledge whatsoever. It makes him feel better, but has little or no effect. 

“Don’t think you can come here beguiling me with one language, claiming it’s another!” The air of triumph from the man is infuriating, as though he has foxed Kris’ scheme to get one over on him. 

Suddenly, inspiration strikes Kris. If he can’t convince the farmer, then maybe the local authorities will be more reasonable. 

“Well, go and telephone for the police if you think I am German. They will need to question me!” And hopefully they’ll take him away from here and help him return safely to his station without any more misunderstandings. 

The old looks confused for a moment as though trying to work out why a German spy is asking for the police to be called. Then a grin splits his rather dirty face. “I’ll not be doing that, you can’t fool me, I don’t hold by those new telephones, I don’t have one! There’s no trying to pull a fast one on me like that Fritz!”

And with that, Kris’ temper explodes. It’s like trying to talk to Flower! Words pour out of him. 

“My name is Kris, Kris Letang. I am a Flight Lieutenant in the RAF, based out of RAF Coltishall, flying with 242 Squadron, flying Hurricanes. I was shot down earlier today when flying a mission over this god-forsaken piece of England, and I need to return to my station, where we are perpetually shorthanded, and, in case you haven’t noticed, we are fighting a war. I do not have the time to stand around listening to your accusations that I am German. I am French, born in Canada, but was raised just outside Paris when my parents came back to France when I was a boy. I came over to fight when the Germans occupied most of my country and I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing. And now you have the temerity to accuse me of being that which I have fought?”

Kris starts to stalk towards the farmer, only to be brought up short by an urgent movement of the gun. 

“Stay there! Don’t come any closer or I will shoot!” The old guy is bristling now, but Kris thinks he’s more scared than anything. He tries to tone down his anger, but it’s hard. He freezes in place. He’s not sure if he’s more at risk or the old man is if he tries to fire that thing, but he really doesn’t want to take the chance. 

“I am not a German! Call your police so we can get this sorted out. Or take me to the police station!”

“I’m not going to let you gallivant around the countryside, seeing whatever you want to see! Loose lips sink ships!” 

“What ships are there to sink in this arse end of nowhere?” Kris really cannot help himself on that one. 

“See, you’re trying to get secret information out of me - I’m not going to tell you!”

Kris inhales deeply, before clasping his hands to his head and yelling out, trying to vent his frustration out so he can stay calm. The ancient is watching him with perplexity. 

“I have just told you a lot more ‘secret’ information in telling you where I am based and what squadron I am in. Please, let me just go to the police station, so this can be sorted out. My comrades will be getting worried.” He’s aware that the sky is starting to darken; evening is coming and they will have expected him long before this. 

“It’s too late to go now - we’ll go in the morning. Sergeant Conyers will know what to do with German spies.” 

“For the last time….” He stops, reconsiders. At least it is agreed they will go to a police station, even if it is tomorrow. It’s a step foward. It’s better than being shot. “Ok. Do you have someplace I can sleep tonight?”

The old man walks several paces and then bends down, keeping one eye on Kris, causing the weapon to point randomly all over the place, fumbling at a hatch at his feet. “You’ll sleep in the root cellar, you won’t be able to run away.” He flings open the hatch, motioning Kris towards the dark hole with the now steadied weapon. 

“What?” For a moment, Kris is tempted to just point blank refuse. He’s really had enough of this now, and the thought of spending a night in a dark cellar is just the icing on the cake. He’s not even sure the gun works; he might be as well to take his chances. But he bites it back - so long as he makes it home safely, it’ll be worth whatever temporary aggravation he has to endure. 

“Can I have some water and some food?” he inquires. That his tone is caustic is beyond his ability to control, as he limps towards the hole. He can’t see how deep it is, so settles down onto the edge, peering inside while there is some light remaining. It looks to be around 6-7 feet deep - just the kind of depth he needs to land in with a bad leg. 

“I’ll bring you some water once you’re safely locked away,” the man sounds put out now. Did he not expect to have to keep his ‘German’ prisoner fed or watered? Kris lowers himself into the hole, letting himself fall the final foot or so, landing with a jar, which sends a spike of pain up his leg. He bites back another curse, but it’s not as bad a drop or indeed pain as he feared. 

A few minutes later a flagon of water follows him - he’s able to catch it and takes a long pull from it, before setting it gently down. The wooden hatch above is pulled shut, and he hears something thudding down onto it. Even if he can somehow reach it, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to open it. 

He fishes into a pocket, pulling out his cigarettes and matches. Lighting a cigarette and taking a deep pull on it, he uses the match to get a quick impression of his new home. It’s dirt floored, reasonably dry, but chilly and, if he’s really desperate, there are some wizened root vegetables of some kind in the corner. He has a feeling he may get really desperate before the night is out. There’s a doorway on the wall opposite, but it’s barred shut. Pulling off his Mae West, he settles it on the ground before using it as a cushion as he leans onto the wall behind him. He counts the matches he has left - eight. 

It’s going to be a long, dark, cold, uncomfortable night. Fuck his life right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm playing with history a little, just because in doing some research as to which station I was basing them out of, there's one of those really nice coincidences which I can't ignore. But it does mean I'm having to ignore the presence of Douglas Bader who was the officer commanding 242 squadron at the time; he's a really remarkable man. At the same time, 242 was a mainly Canadian unit, which I can't just ignore and the description of Bader's approach to red tape fits my head canon for how this squadron operates. So apologies to Douglas Bader for whitewashing him out of the story (particularly since I have a very indirect connection to him!). 
> 
> You'll be grateful I did not try to write in east of England dialect for my farmer. I'm willing to do a lot for verisimilitude but not that!
> 
> I'm thinking another two chapters left to write.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kris spends the night in the root cellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a bit of angst in this.... Note the updated tags. It's a hard one to tag for; if you think I've not tagged for something I should then please let me know. 
> 
> Note - the Minor character who dies does not refer to anyone named as a character in the story. 
> 
> I think one, maybe two chapters at most after this one. The story outline says one, so most likely two.

Despite the cigarette, his eyes do adjust to the dim light in the cellar, light seeping in around the doors he was unceremoniously dropped through, falling beneath them to give a dim patch of illumination. He thinks there’s about three hours until sunset, something confirmed by his watch, miraculously unbroken by the exploits of his afternoon and glowing faintly in the darkness. There’s little that he can do to make his stay more comfortable, but he tries… gathers together anything burnable into a pile just in case, although he’s not too sure how the ventilation will be. Given his day so far, he really doesn’t want to asphyxiate himself as well. You can only be expected to survive life-threatening occurrences so many times before luck catches up with you. He makes himself a kind of nest too, jettisoning what he thinks he can to make the ground softer, leaning against the cellar wall. The water is safely put to one side, easily findable, but difficult to knock over. He even bothers to find a few of the less disgusting looking vegetables - some kind of turnip he thinks. At the moment, given the choice between hunger and eating them, he’d rather hunger, but…. 

And that’s it. That’s all he can do. Once that’s done, he still has about two and a half hours before sunset and then the night to get through before he can get out of here and return to the station. While life on the station is a strange mix of boredom and adrenalin, at least there are things to do to kill the time, people to talk to. He’s never had to just sit staring into darkness. He does have to take his watch off and hide it, after he checks it for the third time, only to find no more than fifteen minutes have passed since the first check. 

Unbidden, his thoughts turn to Sid and the sprog. The last he saw of them was as they dived back into the cloud, 109s already all over them. There had been some fleeting glimpses of aeroplane in the clouds, and cold sweat breaks out again as he flashes back to coming out of a cloud to find a Messerschmitt there, in front of him, too close and him pushing frantically on the control column to dive below it, praying the other pilot pulls up to avoid the collision, feet dancing on the rudders to keep the trim on the aeroplane, trying to stop what had seemed an inevitable impact. Somehow they had missed, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget watching the belly of the 109 a few feet above his cockpit, close enough to touch. He realises that the adrenalin has soared back into him again at the memory, breathing harsh and quick again, as it had been in the time, loud in his ears in the confines of the oxygen mask. He closes his eyes quickly, focussing inward, reassuring himself that he’s here, where it’s quiet and safe, where no-one is trying to kill him, taking control of his breathing as he has what seems like a thousand times before, counting the breaths, slowing them back down again. His heart stops racing and he slumps back against the wall. It had been that 109 which had dived with him, out-turning him to get firing position on him and he finds himself reliving the battle again, going through it, trying to find places where he could have done something differently, changed the outcome, got the upper hand. There’s precious few and he finds his anxiety rising as he thinks how he could have died by just being outflown and out shot. He’s tried to cling onto the fact he knows he’s a good airman to stave off his own fears, to justify why it won’t be him that’s shot down. For sure, he’s limped back to base with a broken and bleeding aeroplane, but he got it back, even if he did bend it severely on landing. Today, though he can’t see a way to have changed the outcome of the battle except through sheer blind luck. Pilots who rely on luck are dead pilots. Nealer had boasted of his luck and Kris had watched him go head on with a German fighter, neither willing to back down, going down in a tumble of broken wings and burning aeroplane. It had been magnificent and reckless and brave and stupid and ultimately, it meant Kris had lost another friend. He doesn’t know if he’s lost yet another friend today, Sid’s fate unknown and it gnaws at him, picturing different scenarios - where he did a Sid and pulled off some miraculous feat of airmanship to get him and the kid home safely, to him lying broken and burned in a nameless hospital someplace, to his plane being a crumpled pile of broken metal on the ground, Sid’s body lying lifeless within it. 

He tries to stop the morbid thoughts. He doesn’t like the quiet, doesn’t like the calm or the lack of things to do. It lets him think and remember and feel and he doesn’t want to to any of those things. There’s too much to think about and remember and feel since this blasted war had started. The drip, drip, drip of constant stress, constant battle, knowing that they are hanging by the smallest of threads at all times - both personally and as a unit. He hopes there is a grander plan, a scheme of things, but at their level, all there is a scurry of orders and scrambles and dog fights. Of watching friends die and being replaced by people you don’t want to get too close to, in case they die too. Nobody had warned him at the start, when they were young and carefree and invincible of the dangers of making friends, of getting too close. 

That they were invincible was something which had been quickly disproved. It had taken longer to wear down them down from being carefree, but the grind of mission after mission had done that. He supposes they are young, but he doesn’t feel it anymore. 

He pauses, rubbing his hand through his hair. He’s doing it again. It’s fully dark now, night has fallen and he listens intently for any sound, anything he can use to distract himself, settling back more into the wall, adjusting what little padding he has. He can hear the quiet ‘choook’ of chickens someplace nearby and he tries to focus on that. Anything to pull him out of his own mind. 

0--0--0

_The conditions are atrocious… it’s dark and heavy and he can feel the wind buffeting constantly at his aeroplane, the sharp noise of rain hitting the fuselage, the constant wash of it across the windshield and trickling in many small leaks into the cockpit. He’d tried to climb above it earlier, to escape through the clouds into calmer weather, but hadn’t been able to get high enough so now he’s flying on instruments and dead reckoning and hoping the wind isn’t taking him too far of course. He doesn’t know where anyone else is - they were lost soon after he entered the cloud and the radio has been crackling and hissing with the interference from the storm._

_He tries again. “This is Pittsburgh 2 calling Consol, Pittsburgh 2 calling Consol.. Can you hear me? Over.” He listens intently but there is nothing, Just a particularly loud crackle through his headset, causing him to wince. Even above the roar of the engine, he can hear the thunder which likely caused it - there wasn’t much time between the two so he must be close to the heart of the storm. A particularly vicious wind gust catches him, and he automatically corrects with the rudder, nursing the plane through it._

_“Tanger.. Is that you? Can you hear me?” Suddenly there’s a voice faint and crackly over his head set. He swears… is that Sid?_

_“Tanger… are you there? Can you hear me?”_

_Radio protocols forgotten, he almost bellows into his radio mike, “Sid, yes, it’s me where are you?”_

_“Tanger… where are you? I lost you! Can you hear me?”_

_Kris starts making minute heading changes to his aeroplane, trying not to deviate too far from his course, but trying to find out if the radio signal will strengthen to give him a way of getting closer to Sid._

_“Sid, I’m here, I can hear you. Reception is bad though - I hear you three by two. Can you hear me? Over.” Kris doesn’t think he’s ever listened so intently so hard, trying to pick out that faint voice over the hiss of the radio-set._

_“I lost you Tanger, why did you leave me? I can’t find you.”_

_Kris jumps at the accusation in the question, the desperation in Sid’s tone. He closes his eyes briefly… no, no, no - he didn’t… he wouldn’t._

_“Tanger I can’t find you - you left me. I don’t know where I am. Tanger, can you hear me?”_

_“Sid, can you hear me? I can hear you. If you can find me, I know where we are. Can you hear me? Over,” He finds himself speaking louder, trying to make Sid hear him through sheer volume._

_“I’m lost Tanger, I don’t know where you are or why you left me. You left me behind, where are you?” He can hear the rising panic in Sid’s voice, the fear and the accusation in it, despite the poor reception. But he didn’t do that, he didn’t leave Sid behind he wouldn’t. It was the cloud, it wasn’t his choice. He’s trying everything he can, clawing into his memory to recall every rumour or trick to try and strengthen the signal, to at least get a direction on Sid, but nothing is working._

_“Sid, I’ll find you. Can you hear me? Keep talking I’m trying to track your signal,” he’s trying to keep his voice calm, but it isn’t, even to him, it doesn’t sound calm._

_“Tanger, you left me… Tanger…….. Tanger?” Sid’s voice gets louder and more anxious, more afraid, before breaking down into a series of agonised screams, which cut off, mid scream with a finality which chills Kris’ blood and stops his heart._

_He starts to shake all over, trying to reject what he has just heard, but certain his friend is dead, fear and pain and sorrow and grief pouring through him, filling him to breaking point and beyond. He starts to sob._

_“Sid.. can you hear me? SID?!” He finds himself shaking harder and harder_

Until he sits up in the darkness with a gasp and a broken sob, his voice hoarse from shouting, his body cased in a cold sweat. 

He’s still in the root cellar. 

It was a dream. 

He hasn’t just heard Sid die, blaming him for it. 

He tells himself that over and over again, reaching out to touch the wall and floor of the cellar, the contact grounding him more, helping to dissipate his confusion. 

He fights to take any breaths he can, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. He manages to pull it out and the matches too, holding his breath to steady his hand while he uses a precious match to light it. Drawing down, he inhales deeply, the familiar routine settling him further, managing to break free more of the terror which had enveloped him. His heart rate is slowing and he concentrates on the cigarette, reminding himself over and over that it was just a dream. He should have expected it after the day he’d had and no alcohol available to help him sleep. Sid would be ok, he hadn’t let him die. He’d get back to station today and they’d all be waiting for him. 

Sid would be ok.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the darkest night, comes the dawn. 
> 
> Note updated tags! But I did promise a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I finished writing this to bring myself some stress relief, mid-series. 
> 
> Un-betaed... mistakes are therefore all my own, but happy for you to point any out!

The first sign that dawn is coming comes in the sound of birds singing, and slowly, the cold grey light of dawn filters into the root cellar. Kris uses his second last match to light another cigarette - he’d managed no more sleep since the dream, sinking into a waking haze where he just tried not to think at all. But his heart starts to lighten as the light in the cellar changes, relief at his impending release filling him. He feels tired and stiff and sore; his leg isn’t feeling any better, something grinding and painful deep inside his knee, his eyes are gritty and he feels grimy and dirty through and through - but he’s going to get out of here soon and back to something resembling civilisation. He feels the irony at that thought; that he would welcome going back to a place where he’s trying to kill while avoiding being killed, but anyone who felt otherwise hasn’t just spent the night in this damned root cellar. 

There’s a scraping sound at the door on the other side of the cellar, and it swings open reluctantly to reveal the ancient standing there, still holding the equally as ancient gun. 

“Get up,” the old man commands waving the gun at him. 

Kris can’t help it. The imp of the perverse is sitting on his shoulder very firmly this morning. 

“Good morning to you too! I trust you slept well? I think you need to do a bit of work down here to really make it habitable by humans, but it has a certain charm, a rustic appeal which, if I were you, I would try very hard not to destroy. You’ll have visitors flocking once they realise the experience they could have,” he stands up, starting to dust himself down, gathering up his meagre belongings, “I mean, how many people get to spend the night in a root cellar? All it really needs is some light, a bed, some floors and walls, maybe a heat source, and it’s perfect. I do have to say, without those, it is sadly lacking and you also really need to work on your hospitality - you need to appear at least a little welcoming. I don’t suppose I’m going to get any breakfast?” He pauses, smiling innocently at the old man, waiting for a response to his question. 

“Shut up”

“Ah I thought not. Still, one can hope I suppose. Just not with any great expectation. That’s what I mean, my friend, by having to improve on your standards of hospitality. It’s irresponsible to think you can have people staying here and not have to give them any food. Paying guests just won’t stand for it.”

“Shut up! I’m not going to tell you again.”

Kris sighs, and weighs options for a moment as he makes his way towards the door. Through the doorway, there’s a narrow flight of stairs leading upwards and the ancient is starting to go up them backwards, watching Kris the entire time. Kris follows, his mind made up. He’s just spent a very uncomfortable night in a cellar courtesy of this man. 

“Or what, you’ll shoot me? Or just give up on telling me to shut up, given how futile the first two times have been? You don’t think that even if I’m a German spy - which I amn’t, given I’m a French officer in the RAF - that the authorities will be a little bit angry if you shoot me just because I didn’t stop talking. Although I have to say, my comrades would probably understand it, but I doubt they’d act as character witnesses. They’re rather busy, defending this country from the Germans, which is exactly what I should be doing right now, rather than continuing this ridiculous charade.”

They’ve reached the top of the stairs, and come out into a messy and chaotic kitchen. It seems more hovel than house. Kris looks around. 

“Nice place.” His tone couldn’t be any more sarcastic if he tried and it’s met with an angry growl from the farmer, who waves the gun towards the farmhouse door. Kris guesses that’s meant to be an instruction, but as he’s crossing the kitchen floor towards the door, he spots a bowl of plums on the countertop and snags one as he passes. There’s another growl from the farmer, but he’s bitten into it before he can be stopped, savouring the sweet juicy flesh - given how hungry he is, it tastes of nectar and ambrosia. There’s another angry growl and he shrugs, mouth full of plum, his stomach growling in response. 

“What do you expect, I last ate yesterday lunchtime! You can’t begrudge me one plum after keeping me locked up overnight!” 

In three bites it’s gone, and he desperately wants to lick his fingers to catch the last of the juice, but his hands are black with grime and soot and god knows what else so he just can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he wipes them off on his trousers to try and not add stickiness to the mix. He’s only moderately successful. 

Outside an ancient, wrecked van is parked. It absolutely fits in with everything else Kris has seen around the farm in terms of decriptness and age - he’s surprised it even actually still goes. He looks towards the farmer for instruction, but sees only confusion on his face. After a moment’s reflection, Kris understands his dilemma - the man can’t drive while keeping that old gun trained on Kris. He could try locking him in the back of the van, but given its condition, Kris fancies he could break out rather easily - not that he actually wants to, but the farmer’s paranoia isn’t going to believe that. He stands and waits; there is an obvious solution, but he’s not going to provide it. 

Eventually, after they’ve just stood staring at the van for a while, Kris really cannot stand it any more. 

“Are we actually going to take that rusting deathtrap and go?” 

“Shut up Fritz!”

Kris can’t help himself this time, he laughs out loud. Clearly the ancient hasn’t learned anything from his past attempts to stop Kris talking. 

“It’s just the day is wasting; you have things you clearly need to do on the farm - although I’m not sure there’s enough daylight ever for all the things you need to do and I need to get back to my station. We can’t do that if we’re just standing here admiring the antiquity of your vehicle. I can see it’s been cherished though and I salute you on your ability to maintain a vehicle that clearly should have died years ago.” 

The man frowns at him, waves the gun once more. 

“You drive!”

Kris mentally congratulates him for having finally worked out the only solution. But he’s really not sure he’ll be able to drive such an ancient vehicle - it’s bound to be temperamental and it will be just his current luck if a mistake on his part leads to him being shot for trying to escape. 

“I warn you, I’m not sure I can. I think there will be a certain knack to this vehicle! Does it have a name?” 

The old man just grunts at him, waving him again towards the driver’s side. Kris gets in tentatively. He’s surprised it doesn’t start with a crankshaft at the front, but it’s not that old. Probably. 

With some difficulty, and no help at all from his passenger, Kris coaxes the thing into life, its engine grumbling and rumbling away and they set off with a judder. It only stalls twice more on the way to wherever they’re going, changes of direction indicated with a grunt. The steering is as temperamental as he had thought it would be and the brakes… well there really aren’t any to speak of, but somehow, more by luck than skill and badly hampered by his injured knee, he keeps it mostly on the road. It’s fair to say that by the time they have pulled into an unnamed village (because why give any German invaders the benefit of knowing they have reached Arsend - in - Nowhere) that he hates the thing he’s trying to drive almost as much as he hates the old man making him do it. 

Their arrival outside the police station doesn’t attract much attention. The appearance of Kris, still being held at gunpoint does. A small crowd quickly gathers - murmuring at a distance. Kris appreciates that no-one wants to get too close to this lunatic with his ancient and likely unpredictable weapon. Now he can almost taste freedom, he just wants done with it all. And then fortunately, authority arrives in the shape of a police sergeant. 

“Now then Derek, what do we have here? Do you want to put that gun safely away? I’ll even turn a blind eye to the fact you have it if you do that for me!” 

‘Derek’ ignores the policeman, keeps his gun pointed in Kris’ general direction. 

“German spy!” he exclaims. “Caught him sneaking around on my farm after his plane crashed. Tried to kill me!” 

The murmuring from the crowd gets louder. 

“That’s utter nonsense!” Kris is furious at the misrepresentation, but suddenly scared that in this backwater, it might actually be believed. Channeling every stuck-up, senior British officer he’s ever encountered he continues, “I’m a pilot in the RAF, I was shot down yesterday and crashed in the fields close to this man’s farm. He refused to believe I was French, kept insisting I was German, wouldn’t let me contact my command to let my squadron know what had happened and instead locked me up in a root cellar!” He stares at the policeman imploringly. “He only agreed to bring me here to the police station because he thought you would lock me up. I need to get back to my squadron - I’ve been missing 18 hours.” He realises as he reaches the end of his plea, how ragged he sounds, tries to take a deep breath, bring himself back under control. 

The police sergeant looks at him hard, turns to look at Derek, turns back to Kris. “I think it’s best we take this inside the station, where we can get your story checked out. Mrs Miggens, why don’t you give Derek a cup of tea? He’s done what needs to be done by bringing this pilot here. We’ll take it from here!” 

With that, the sergeant is efficiently sweeping Kris into the station, effectively ending the tableau outside. Kris starts to relax; this sergeant doesn’t seem like an idiot. The sergeant ushers Kris to a seat at his desk. 

“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asks, not unkindly. “You look a bit done in.” 

There are times Kris despairs at the British obsession with tea, particularly since Flower has adopted it fanatically. This is not one of them - he can suddenly see the comfort it can bring. He nods, clearing his throat to be able to speak. 

“Just milk please.”

The sergeant turns away, raises his voice. “Boyle, tea for our guest and for me please. Just milk for him.” There’s a shouted acknowledgement from somewhere else in the station. 

He turns back, sits down opposite Kris. “I’m Sergeant Blackford. Now, why don’t you tell me your name, and how you came to be sitting in my station?” 

There’s a fatherliness about Blackford which Kris finds irresistible; he’s a good listener, and before long, he’s telling all the events of the last 18 hours to him. During the recitation, the mug of tea appears, brought in by Boyle who appears to be a very young policeman, and as Kris wraps his hands around it, sipping from it as he speaks… he so gets the British obsession now. It is like the nectar of the gods.  
Blackford asks questions throughout, drawing Kris out further, seeking clarification. Kris probably reveals more than he should; it’s not just operational and factual, Blackford is such a good listener he’s drawn into talking about his fears and feelings as well. It feels… cathartic. 

At the end Blackford sits back with a sigh.

“I’m sorry about Derek,” Blackford says. “He’s a good man, but he lost both of his sons in the last war, and things haven’t been quite the same. Isn’t quite willing to listen to reason on a few things, but he’s generally harmless so we let him be.” He sighs, looks away. “But, you’re here now, and we should be getting you home. I’ll send Boyle down to the station and get them to work out a travel route for you and then I can issue you with a temporary travel permit. We also need to telephone your headquarters to let them know we have you.”

Kris interrupts,”Can’t we just phone my station? They’ll want to know where I am.”

Blackford shakes his head. “No, procedure is to route news on shot down airmen through Group Headquarters. I know it sounds better to do it direct, but that’s the way we have to do it.” He considers for a moment. “There’s a small bedroom and bathroom attached to the station for when we do nights. Why don’t you go and have a wash up, and I’ll start the paperwork moving? We should be able to round up some sandwiches for you as well. Thankfully, being in the country, rationing is a bit more relaxed out here.” He winks deliberately at Kris, and Kris realises he’s effectively being told that there’s some illicitness in the food he’s about to be provided. He can’t complain; he’s starving and if the local police station endorse it, who is he to object? He smiles back. 

“Thanks, that would be very kind of you.”

He wants to protest more about not contacting his station, but Blackford seems to know what he’s doing, and he’s holding a massive carrot out to Kris. Kris follows Boyle down to the back of the station where the small bedroom and bathroom are. Shortly after, Blackford brings in a plate of ham sandwiches and another mug of tea. He’s also got a washbag. 

“Here, borrow anything you need out of this.”

0--0--0

He’s finished washing and shaving and is as clean as he can feel wearing clothes he’s been wearing for a day now. The sandwiches are long gone, so he stretches out on the bed. He’ll just rest his eyes for a couple of minutes….. 

0--0--0

He wakes groggily to someone calling his name. Damn, he must have slept in and missed his call. He’s jumping out of bed, muscle memory making him reach for a Mae West that isn’t in its proper place, before he realises that this isn’t his bedroom and that there’s a policeman wakening him up… memory returns as to where he is and his heart rate calms again. 

“You got some sleep then?” Blackford smiles at him. “Good. But your train is in 20 minutes, so we thought we’d better waken you.” 

He follows Blackford back through to the front of the station. Blackford takes him through the travel permit, explaining where to change - it’s not the easiest of journeys but he should get back to the station late this afternoon. 

“And I’ve let your HQ know as well - they promised me faithfully they’d pass the news to your squadron. Now, Boyle will show you the way to the station, so you take yourself off and get home safely you hear!” 

“Thank you Sergeant,” Kris is humbled by the kindness that has been shown to him. Blackford looks at him. 

“My son is flightcrew in a Wellington bomber. What you boys do up there…. “ Blackford pauses for a moment. “If I can do anything to help, I will. And I hope when you get back to base, you find your comrades waiting for you there.” He offers a tight-lipped smile. “Now go - don’t miss the train!”

0--0--0

Ten long hours of travelling and sitting around train stations waiting on the next train, and Kris is finally walking up the drive towards the station HQ. It’s getting late, but Kris expects Mario will still be at his desk, dealing with the endless paperwork with his usual mix of resignation, frustration and anger. Injury has grounded him, and while he might not enjoy commanding a squadron, only his worst critics can claim he isn’t good at it. 

Kris finds himself whistling as he walks, lighter at heart to be finally back on base. There is still tenseness there; he’s desperately conscious that he still doesn’t know what happened to Sid, but also relief at being back where he belongs. He bounds up the steps of the HQ, making his way along the corridor to where Mario’s office is, with its view out over the airfield. A brief knock and he’s pushing in even before he hears the voice telling him to do so. 

Mario is, as expected, sitting at his desk with the usual piles of paper all over it. What is not expected is the bottle of whisky and the filled glass at his elbow, and the look of strain on his face as he finishes whatever he is writing. 

All Kris’ good feeling evaporates instantly, the breath whooshing out of him in shock and his stomach lurching downwards. He is shaking all over at recognising the signs they’ve come to identify which mean that Mario is writing to loved ones to tell them of the death of one of the squadron. 

“Oh fuck Mario,” he whispers. “Not Sid?” 

Mario’s head snaps up, his mouth falling open. He’s blinking rapidly, staring at Kris owlishly, before starting to his feet and stumbling around his desk towards Kris. 

“No… not Sid, he’s fine,” Mario responds and the topsy-turvey of emotions is almost too much for Kris, the relief breaking through him like sunlight after rain, golden and light and effervescent. “You!” 

And suddenly he’s enfolded in Mario’s long arms, being hugged so that the breath leaves him in a whump. He leans in, hugs him back, because somehow, he’s made it back, and Sid’s ok and yes, just this. He needs this, needs to have this moment being held and grounded while his world rights itself again. 

After what seems an age, Mario pushes him back to stare into his face, inspect him all over. 

“Where the fuck have you been? It’s been over 24 hours!” he sounds angry now; Kris is pretty sure it’s the anger that comes from fear. 

“Group HQ didn’t pass along the message then that I was ok but had crash landed in Kent?” he replies wryly. 

There’s an explosion of wrath from Mario - Kris is just happy to direct it in another direction than his own, but he’s waving Kris over to the leather seats in the corner of the room. Rank has some perks. “Tell me” he says. 

So Kris does; he keeps it short, doesn’t go on too much about Derek or the root cellar - well he thinks he doesn’t, but he can see Mario joining the dots he leaves unconnected and he suspects the night Kris spent in a root cellar is going to pass into station yore. At the end, Mario nods. 

“Well yes, comms fuck up then. But you’re back with us now and that’s the main thing,” he says. His gaze moves away, out towards the windows where the pilots are quartered. “They don’t know you’re safe either. They’re down in the pub. I’d get down there to put it right if I was you?” He smiles slightly. “Don’t let Flower talk you into taking his early tomorrow, but I’ll try and leverage some cover from Group for the mess they’ve made of this, at least in the morning. Check the boards when you get in.” 

Kris takes the hint, stands, his movements being matched by Mario, who grins at him. 

“I’m so glad to see you back. More relieved than I can say.” 

“Thanks. I’m pretty happy to get back! You’re not joining us?” Kris thinks the only time Mario joins them in the pub is for a wake; it’s time he joined them on a happier occasion. Mario appears to consider it. 

“Actually, yes, I’ll be down later. It looks like my paperwork load has just lightened considerably.” A quick flashing smile at the reason but then he pauses, a thought striking him. “I don’t suppose your plane was salvageable was it?”

Kris shakes his head. “Crashed and burned.”

Mario groans. “You don’t know how many forms I have to fill in to explain that!”

“No,” says Kris irascibly. “It’s not my job to, I just crash them!” And on that he grins at Mario, salutes and leaves. 

0--0--0

After changing as quickly as he can, driven by the knowledge that even now his comrades are holding his wake, he’s walking down to the village as dusk falls around him. It’s a lovely evening; things are still and quiet and peaceful, only the sound of birdsong falling around him. Not even the drone of aeroplane engines for once. Everything is calm and serene and still and it relaxes him like little else could, the last of the tension he’s been carrying dissipating. 

Noise picks up again as he gets close to the pub, although even it is blacked out, little light sneaking out to show you where it is. By now his eyes are accustomed to the gloom, everything silvered by the moonlight beaming down upon him, but the light is searing when he pushes into the pub, too much contrast after the darkness outside and he has to pause on the threshold, let his eyes adjust as he orientates and finds his way. 

The group is in the corner, drinks in front of all of them, and a shot glass in the middle of the table. Flower is standing up, back to the door, holding court, all eyes on him. Sid and Geno are sat side by side and if he looks carefully, he can see Sid leaning into Geno, Geno supporting him as always. Bennett looks closed off and sad; Kris realises with a start this will be his first wake. Kuni… Horny….. Even Duper is there, the empty sleeve pinned up neatly at his side, burn scars still too fresh and livid. 

“We are here… “ Flower is announcing, grandiosely, already sounding very drink, “To drink to our friend… a good pilot…. A better womaniser… a great friend…who no matter the occasion, always had great hair… who was more concerned with how the uniform looked on him than.. Well just about anything else in his life...”

Kris finds his eyebrows rising. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to let Flower eulogise him? Without realising what’s he’s doing, he strides over to the table and snatches up the filled glass sitting in the middle. 

“You know what he would say if he was here?” he says into the shocked silence. “Less talking - especially such crap! - more drinking! Anyone would think you were holding a wake or something!” And he grins at them, because frankly, who wouldn’t enjoy such a moment? 

They’re staring at him like they’ve seen a ghost - open mouthed, frozen into stillness. Then Sid is launching himself at Kris. 

“You’re alive!” Sid yells, flinging his arms around him, and that’s the signal for everyone to move, ending up with Kris at the centre of a tumultuous scrum. Somewhere along the way, his glass is lost, but it’s a riotous greeting and in a good cause and he can’t regret that too much. 

Eventually they settle back down again, every member of the group having made sure to hug him, slap his back, welcome him home. Kris is now at the centre of the group, tucked between Sid and Flower, explaining what happened. As fast as he drinks, his glass keeps being refilled. He’s starting to think he should go to his own wake more often. At the end of the tale, Flower leans over to him and sniffs him. 

“You still smell of farmyard!” he crows. “I would have paid good money to see you after a night in a root cellar!”

“Not going to happen. Besides, if I die again, you have to promise me that Flower is not delivering my eulogy next time!” Kris is emphatic. 

Sid glares at him. “There’s not going to be a next time!” And yeah, the way Sid says it, the look on his face….. Kris doesn’t want there to be a next time either and feels the lump in his throat, knows Sid has seen something in his face too. 

Geno steps in. “Not going to be a next time, because we’ve already held your wake. One person, one wake! New rule. Although we’ve never had a dead person drink so much!” That comment brings in Horny and Kuni and even Duper, chirping and laughing at him and he’s giving just as much back in return. 

Later, leaning back into the cushions of the seat, it really hits him. Mario is up at the bar, buying the next round. His friends are around him, and at this moment, there’s nowhere he’d rather be than in this place, with these people. 

He can worry about what might happen tomorrow, tomorrow. Worrying about it now won’t change anything and stops him enjoying the now. He catches Sid watching him, grins across reassuringly, is relieved to see Sid grin back at him. He holds up a glass in a toast to Sid, and Sid toasts him back and they down the shots together, Geno’s rumbling laugh at them both rolling around them, warm and infectious. 

Besides, he might not even have a plane to fly. And he can’t wait for Flower’s reaction if he doesn’t…. But that’s tomorrow, and today is the here and now. Enjoy it while he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hope you enjoyed this. It's been an interesting AU to write, trying to get into a 1940s mindset in that time and in that place.


End file.
